


The Collector

by Amelior8or



Series: Drarryland 2019 [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Captivity, Drarryland: A Drarry Game/Fest, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Bargains, Kidnapping, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 04:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18242600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelior8or/pseuds/Amelior8or
Summary: What the Aurors did know about this entity was unpleasant at best: someone called the Collector had swept through the British Isles the last few months, vanishing people into thin air. Someone else would get a note, offering a choice — willingly trade their magic for the return of their loved one, hale and whole. Those who agreed were effectively rendered Squibs. Nothing, not a single trace of magic was left. Those who didn’t agree kept their magic, but their loved one was never seen again.





	The Collector

**Author's Note:**

> For the Drarryland prompt: Draco disappears and Harry finds this: 
> 
> Minimum: 397 words - Maximum: 997 words.
> 
> Thank you to Spencer for the Beta!

“No one will come,” Harry wheezed, trying not to choke on the feeling of ichor spreading through his lungs.

“Someone always comes,” they said. “I sent an invitation. No one turns down my invitations.”

“How…” Harry swallowed, tried sucking in air once again. “How do you even send it? Do the Fae use owls these days?”

“Fae _adjacent_ ,” they said, turning to study Harry with wide, slanted, purple eyes. “I know what you’re doing, clever hero. Trying to steal information you haven’t earned. It’s very naughty.”

“Given my treatment since I became your guest, I think I’ve earned plenty,” Harry said. The pool of ichor he was in had risen up to his collarbones by now, oozing through his skin and seeping deep into his bones. He was immobilized, alone, and at the mercy of a kidnapping, murdering, not-human entity he knew basically nothing about. If he somehow did manage to get out of this, Draco will probably tear him a new one for getting into this mess.

What the Aurors did know about this entity was unpleasant at best: someone called the Collector had swept through the British Isles the last few months, vanishing people into thin air. Someone else would get a note, offering a choice — willingly trade their magic for the return of their loved one, hale and whole. Those who agreed were effectively rendered Squibs. Nothing, not a single trace of magic was left. Those who didn’t agree kept their magic, but their loved one was never seen again.

It was Draco who figured out that the kidnapper was Fae, who spent whole nights in archives and who emerged with records of similar events documented from hundreds of years ago. It was Draco who triangulated a 30 kilometre radius where the Collector was situated from hundreds of different forests.

It was Draco who explicitly told Harry that baiting the Collector would be the most imbecillic decision of his soon-to-be-shortened career.

“The discomfort is your own making, little hero,” the Collector said. “Your position is not nearly as discommodious as that of all the others I borrow. And you well know the conditions of your release.” They walked to the edge of the ichor pool and pulled out a metal key from fathomless and luminous black robes. The key was laid on top of a small silver chest resting barely a breath away from the lapping, inky waters. “Take the key. Open the chest. Leave your magic. And you’ll be returned to your life, hale and whole.” Then they fluttered their fingers, too long, too white, and covered in a fine membrane of moss. “Or wait until someone comes for you and let them accept the exchange. Whichever you prefer.”

Harry clenched his jaw. Neither option was acceptable, so he didn’t have a choice but to find another way out. “What do you even do with all this magic, anyways? Keep it in boxes on a shelf somewhere?”

“Magic is a delicacy,” they said. “I partake in my collection whenever the occasion calls for a delicacy. Or when humans have become tedious again and partaking is better than the Great Sleep.”

“It’s those untedious ones you send invitations to, then?” Harry asked. “Or are they the ones you kidnap?”

They stilled. “Clever hero,” they said. “If I hadn’t planned on collecting your magic, I’d take your cleverness instead. Or your scars. But know this: I know many things, and the magic of some is greater than the magic of others. Magic willingly given is satisfying. Magic willingly sacrificed for love is exceptional.” They came closer. “Who receives an invitation is no accident. The invitation goes to whoever loves you more dearly than anyone else in the world. Only they can see the writing on the invitation, and only they come. And I want to know who exactly will receive yours.”

“Don’t think you’ve earned that information,” Harry said. He tried to convince himself that the heavy thudding of his heart was from the ichor, not from deep, squirming fear for anyone who’d come for him.

Or a dangerous, twisted hope for who _could_ come.

There had been one kiss, only one. One kiss that was biting and familiar and desperate and sweet and perfect, perfect, perfect. One kiss, under the fireworks for Guy Fawkes, before Draco had pulled away, running his fingers carefully, reverently along Harry’s chin, and said, “never again.”

“What?”

“Never again,” Draco had repeated. “We can’t ever kiss again, Harry. Not when you’re this close to finally fading from every front page and celebrity gossip rag. You could finally have a life where you can get groceries without reporters watching your every move. And there’s no way you’d get that if you kept kissing a Death Eater.”

“I don’t have to get that,” Harry said. “I could give that up, if I could keep kissing you.”

“I know,” Draco said softly. “And I love you too much to let you sacrifice that for someone like me.”

Harry knew exactly who would get the invitation.

“You’re going to wait a while,” Harry said. “I don’t have a spouse, or parents, or children, or even a crup. No one will come.”

“Truly no one?” the Collector asked, and the teeth in their sly smile were sharp and ashen.

“No one except for a belaboured champion who should have been _listened to in the first place_ ,” Draco said as he marched into the Collector’s chamber.

“Draco,” Harry said, and he couldn’t breathe again. His ribs were collapsing and his heart was expanding and he was glowing and terrified and ecstatic.

“Ah, see?” The Collector said. “No one turns down my invitations.” They turned to Draco. “Have you come to give me an exchange?”

“Malfoys don’t do trades,” Draco said, then pointed his wand at the Collector and said “ _Incarcerous argenti. Incarcerous sorbus. Incarcerous aconitum_.”

The ropes that lashed out around the Collector were like the ropes of a standard Incarcerous, but made of branches and and silver and bright red berries. They looked thin and fragile, yet the moment they wrapped around the Collector, their oddly-jointed limbs recoiled and thrashed, yanked into uncomfortable constraints. Harry sucked in a breath past the ichor in his throat and tried to smile. Of course Draco would find strange and rare spells for binding Fae-adjacent creatures.

“Harry, how gravely are you injured?” Draco asked, levitating him up and out of the ichor pool with the most tender and gentle spellwork that Harry had ever felt.

As the ichor began to ooze off his shoulder and drip down past his ribs, Harry took his first deep breath in ages and beamed. His chest felt like bursting in the best possible way. “I’m great. I need a shower, and maybe some sleep, but I’m really, really great.”

“Your victory is only momentary,” the Collector said, even though their head was tilted very precisely in order to keep their horns from brushing the rowan berries. “Goodbye, meagre hero. I’ll have your magic before the moon sets.”

“Not if I can help it,” Draco said. He turned to Harry. “If it’s all right with you, I’m taking you home.”

“Right. That’s good,” Harry said, “because I think I’m going to black out now.”

 

He woke up in his flat, on the couch that was actually more comfortable than his bed. He tried to sit up, groaned, and saw Draco poke his head into the room.

“Harry,” he said. “I appreciate that you’re alive and I respect that you’re probably incredibly uncomfortable right now, but if you do that again, I will _murder_ you.”

Harry grinned. Draco was threatening his life. Draco got the letter.

“Draco, thank you,” Harry said. “I’m sorry, but thank you. If I could even stand up, I think I would kiss you right now.”

“Don’t you even dare try,” Draco said, though there was a soft flush filling his cheeks. “You’re still disgusting, and I would never get that muck out of my robes.”

Harry grinned at Draco. Draco smirked back. It was a good moment.

And then Draco began to disappear.

Draco, clever Draco, figured out what was happening before Harry did. He gasped, reached out for Harry’s mucky, outstretched hand and said, “Harry, _don’t_ give it to him. Do _not_ make the bargain.”

But then he was gone, in a wisp of smoke, and all that was left was a metal key and a folded piece of paper. When Harry knelt down to grab it, he opened it to see the sharp black words: _You know what to do_.

And he did. Harry knew exactly what he had to do.

Clutching the key tight in his hand, Harry closed his eyes to Apparate back to the Collector.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to keep to the word limit. I really, truly did.


End file.
